


i have been in heaven since the day i found you

by SPC_writes



Category: The Prom - Sklar/Beguelin/Martin
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - World War II, Anxiety, Bandstand AU, Depression, Don't worry it gets happier, F/F, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, World War II, this is what happens when i watch bandstand and go okay but what if it were gayer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24646711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SPC_writes/pseuds/SPC_writes
Summary: Shelby considers the piece of paper in her hand. She looks up and meets Emma’s eyes, a devious smile on her face. “I’ll make you a deal. You promise to go talk to your friend’s fiancée tomorrow, and give me proof that you actually followed through, and I’ll join your band.”An uncharacteristic hopefulness washes over Emma. She shakes Shelby’s hand with determination.“Deal.”---Twelve hours later, Emma finds herself standing in front of the cute yellow house on North Pennsylvania Street she’s walked past countless times. This time, however, she walks up the steps. This time, she knocks on the front door. This time, she doesn’t run away.This time she will finally meet Alyssa Greene.aka Bandstand AU
Relationships: Alyssa Greene/Emma Nolan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! I have no excuse for this other than to say that I watched the Bandstand stream back in April and said this is fantastic but you know what it's missing? Lesbians. And now two months (and many hours of screaming about it to a few friends) later here we are.
> 
> As we get further into the story, the rating might change because of descriptions of war-typical violence/trauma, so keep an eye on it if that's something that concerns you.

**March 1944. Nantes, Occupied France**

_“Bonjour Madame Gauthier. Ça va?”_

Marie-Thérèse Gauthier gives a small wave to the little boy leaning out the apartment window. _“Bonjour Michel. Oui, ça va bien, merci.”_ She pauses at the edge of the sidewalk, glancing both ways down the street, checking for oncoming cars, before hurrying across to the other side. Her pale blue headscarf starts to slip, and she quickly unties the knot under her chin to readjust it. Blonde hair styled in neat waves appears briefly, before being covered once more, protected against the brisk sea breeze.

To anyone who happened to notice her, Marie-Thérèse would appear to be quite an average citizen of Nantes. Her well-worn woolen trench coat is an unassuming tan. The dress beneath it is clean and pretty, but nothing fancy. Her shoes are the same brown and white pumps that many other women have started to favor since leather started to become scarce early in the war. Her only distinguishing accessory is the pair of Harlequin glasses perched on her nose that accentuate her hazel eyes.

They would notice that she walks purposefully, but still takes time to glance in the few shop windows that survived the bombings back in September. They would see her make her way through the winding streets, away from the banks of the Loire, away from the city center, and slow as she approaches the cemetery. They would see her pull a small envelope out of her bag and watch as she holds it gently. They would see her make her way through the rows of headstones. Some have crumbled with age, others damaged in the course of the war. But her destination is an unharmed section in a back corner. Ever since she arrived in Nantes in November, each Thursday morning Marie-Thérèse comes to the back corner of this cemetery, places some pressed, dried flowers on a grave. If anyone asks, she explains it is her husband’s brother who was killed in the First World War. No one ever asks.

As usual, she kneels in front of the headstone. Last week’s flowers are long gone. She pulls out a clean handkerchief and dusts the headstone, then sets about arranging the pressed flowers. From the envelope, she first pulls an iris and balances it delicately in the center of the stone. She lays next to it a red columbine, the brilliance of its petals now faded and looking very at home in the grayness of the cemetery. Finally, she removes a small bundle of lavender, freshly pressed. Satisfied with her work, she sits back on her heels and waits.

Before long, quiet footsteps alert Marie-Thérèse to the presence of another apparent mourner. In her peripheral vision, she watches as another woman stops at the grave to her left. The woman bows her head in reverence as she starts to quietly pray the Hail Mary.

 _“Je vous salue, Marie pleine de grâce; le Seigneur est avec vous…”_ the woman continues. She finishes the prayer and straightens up, finally turning to face Marie-Thérèse. Making eye contact, she extends a hand and helps Marie-Thérèse up from the ground. As she does, the woman glances at the flowers, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly as she understands their meaning. Iris: a message. Red columbine: anxious. Lavender: distrust. The woman draws Marie-Thérèse into a comforting hug. There, with her mouth next to Marie-Thérèse’s ear, she is finally able to convey her message.

“Your suspicions were right. This network has been compromised. There’s a leak, we don’t know where, but we need to get you out. Your mission is over, Amélie.” An envelope is slipped into the inner pocket of her woolen trench coat. “Details enclosed. Extraction tonight. 2 am. You know what to do.” 

The woman pulls back, pats her on the cheek with a gloved hand, and slowly makes her way back through the rows of headstones to the entrance. Marie-Thérèse watches her go, only daring to move after the woman has been gone for several minutes. She straightens her coat, tightens the knot on her headscarf, and proceeds back to her apartment. She stops at the _boulangerie_ for a baguette and at the _fromagerie_ for some cheese. Tucking both purchases under her arm, she turns a corner and pushes through the heavy door of the building. She’s light on her feet, her shoes barely making any noise as she climbs the stone steps to her second-story apartment. She unlocks her door, slipping inside and quickly redoing both locks as quietly as possible.

As the final lock clicks into place, she lets her shoulders sag. So close. She is so, so close. In twelve hours, Marie-Thérèse Gauthier will cease to exist. Her neighbors will wonder what happened to that woman who disappeared without a trace but won’t dwell on it much. After all, they have much more important things to worry about.

In twelve hours, she will be known only as Amélie, former courier for the Prosper network, part of the clandestine Special Operations Executive in France.

And in twenty-four hours, for the first time in months, she will be allowed to be herself. Emma Elizabeth Nolan.

She hopes.

* * *

**August 1945. Indianapolis, Indiana**

One week. She’s been back one week, and she is already going stir crazy. Emma sits on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands, as she tries to figure out how to pass the time until it is an acceptable hour to go to the bar. She could go see her grandmother. But that would require putting on too much of a mask and she doesn’t think she has the energy for that today. She could go to Military Park. She finds wry amusement in how the deteriorating landscape mirrors her internal destruction.

Emma pulls on her hair in frustration. None of those options will solve her problem. She needs her music, she needs an outlet, she needs an _escape_. But all her old gigs have found new headliners, new house musicians. Tugging on a patch of hair just above her ear, she thinks. She’s been to most of her former haunts already, but there are a few she’s been avoiding because it will be impossible to lie when they ask the perfunctory question, “How are you?” Emma sighs, knowing that she can’t put it off any longer if she has any hope of getting a gig anytime soon. She gives one final tug on her hair before standing and facing herself in the mirror. She smooths the wrinkles on her crisp white blouse, tucking the ends more securely into her navy linen pants. Taking one final look, she grabs her handbag off the chair by the door, tosses the small clump of hair she pulled from her head into the trash, and walks with determination out into the blistering Indiana sun.

Her momentary enthusiasm quickly ebbs and, aware that she doesn’t want to be a sweaty mess while she begs for a gig, Emma decides to hop on a streetcar the rest of the way. Twenty minutes later, she gets off at the corner of Indiana Avenue and Michigan Street. Despite her barely concealed anxiety, Emma has to smile. She feels like she grew up on Indiana Avenue. It was where she was introduced to jazz and swing, where she was encouraged to break the sacred rules of her classical music training and let herself feel the music in her body. Turning down a familiar side street, she allows herself to take comfort in the familiarity. The calm only lasts for a minute, though. Emma arrives at her destination. She takes a deep breath, plasters on a pleasant expression, and pushes open the door to the Sunrise Grill.

Immediately the bright sunlight is replaced by the glare of artificial lights. The only sound is the whir of the electric fan positioned on the bar top. Her Oxfords make little noise as she walks across the shiny linoleum, passing tables with their chairs still flipped on top, left over from closing time last night. Emma easily locates the door to the back office and, testing the knob and finding it unlocked, walks in unannounced.

“We open at 7,” a disinterested voice says, not bothering to turn around.

“Now, Barry, is that any way to treat an old friend?” Emma asks with feigned offense.

Barry Glickman, owner and talent manager of the Sunrise Grill spins around, fumbling the papers in his hands. “Emma Nolan, as I live and breathe!” he says in disbelief. He squeezes past the edge of his desk to get to where she stands, just inside the door. Emma gasps a bit as gives her a tight hug, saying, “I was beginning to think I was going crazy, you know. I heard a rumor you were back in town, but I said that couldn’t be because you hadn’t come to see me.” He pulls back and raises an eyebrow. “You weren’t avoiding me, were you?”

Emma furrows her brow playfully. “I would _never_!” Despite the assertion, she ducks her head and refuses to meet Barry’s eyes when she admits, “I’ve been back a week. I just couldn’t bear to see you sooner because I know I have no choice but to be honest and I can’t be honest.”

Barry’s face is unreadable as he finally takes a look at Emma. Her hair is neat, her wire-rimmed glasses appear to be new, and her clothes are chic and clean. But when he looks closer, he sees deep circles under her eyes that makeup simply can’t hide. He sees a patch of missing hair just above her right ear. It would normally be covered by the rest of her carefully styled hair, but the force of his hug had shifted the strands just enough to make the bald patch visible. When she finally looks up again, he swallows his shock at the pain he sees in her eyes. He takes a shaky breath and slides his hands down her arms until he reaches her hands.

He takes a deep breath, and, squeezing her hands in between his own, he says, “I’m not going to ask what you saw or experienced. It’s not my place to ask you to relive that. But I want you to know that I am here. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Emma’s carefully constructed façade crumbles. She lets out a shuddering sob and allows herself to be pulled into Barry’s arms again. Tears don’t come. Tears never come in the daylight hours. But she takes deep, stuttering breaths while Barry rubs her back and holds her. After a few minutes, Emma pulls away and swipes at her eyes, even though no tears actually escaped. She manages a small, tentative smile.

“Thank you, Barry. But I have to be honest, I didn’t come here to be psychoanalyzed.”

Barry sighs and gives a sad smile. “I know. As soon as I heard you were back, I knew it was only a matter of time before you showed up to see if there was a spot for you.” He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, we just hired some new guys for the weekends, and we’re booked solid this week. If you can put together a group soon, I might be able to slip you in sometime in the next few weeks. I’m sorry kid, that’s the best I can do,” Barry finishes regretfully.

Emma presses her lips together, trying to hide her disappointment. She’d known it was a long shot, since Barry’s club was one of the most popular spots and he had a waiting list of bands a mile long. But he had given her a sliver of hope: if she could just put a band together, she’d be back.

She kisses him on the cheek, suddenly excited. “All I’m asking for is a chance. Thank you.” She turns on her heel and is halfway back to the front door when she hears him call out for her to wait.

“Emma! Why don’t you head over to 42nd Street? Dee Dee mentioned something that I think will be of interest to you.”

* * *

At one time, the 42nd Street Club had been the Sunrise Grill’s biggest competition. However, with resources having been slim during the Depression and the ensuing war years, their owners had joined forces and formed a friendship of sorts. Former grande dame of the theatre Dee Dee Allen would be loath to admit that she actually _liked_ Barry’s company, but she secretly had a soft spot for the man. So, when she gets a call from Barry that Emma is on her way over, she agrees to let Emma in on the secret.

Emma walks in and finds Dee Dee sitting at the bar expectantly, two glasses of water waiting on the bar top. She perches on the vacant stool and waits for Dee Dee to speak.

“So. You’re back.”

Emma barely contains her eye roll. “I am.”

“And you’re looking for a gig.”

“Of course not, I came here for the sparkling conversation.”

Dee Dee purses her lips. “Don’t be smart.” She turns and reaches into the handbag sitting by her feet. “Barry called. He said he sent you over here because I might have something for you.” She pauses before cautioning, “Don’t get too excited. I can’t promise anything because it’s not up to me.” Out of the handbag she pulls a creamy folder and slides it in front of Emma. “My snake of an ex-husband is about to announce a radio contest. A ‘Tribute to the Troops’. They’re looking for swing bands from all across the country to compete for a shot at having their song in a film. The final competition will be broadcast live nationwide from New York City.” She taps the folder in Emma’s hands. “The details are in there. It will be announced publicly on Wednesday.”

Emma’s mind is already going a million miles a minute. This is it. This is the break she’s been looking for. If she wins this, she’s set. She won’t have to worry about begging and pleading with old friends to get a gig. People will be calling _her_ , begging _her_ , to come play their club. Now all she needs to do is find other musicians who actually want to be in a band with a woman calling the shots, write an amazing song, win the preliminaries here in Indianapolis, somehow get to New York, then beat out 47 other amazing bands and win the whole thing!

She sighs as she realizes how much of a long-shot it is. She needs to plan. But first, she needs a drink.

* * *

Emma is sipping her second martini when the house band of The Chatterbox starts making their way to the stage to set up. She’s the only patron there, since the bartender recognized her from the night before and let her in twenty minutes early. Now, at ten to 7, she closes her eyes and listens to the familiar chaos of instruments tuning, cases being shuffled around, and equipment being carefully arranged. An awful sound cuts through the din. Emma’s eyes fly open as she locates the source of the sound: a very sheepish trumpet player up on the stage. The saxophone player standing by the piano sighs.

“Frankie, come on. You know you’re always flat, you should know to adjust for it by now.”

“Aw, piss off, Shields,” Frankie says, face flushed in embarrassment. His eyes widen as he notices Emma sitting across the room. He raises his hand in apology, calling out, “Pardon my language, ma’am.”

Emma slides off the stool and walks towards the stage. Smiling at the nervous young man, she tosses back, “Don’t apologize on my account. I’m no more a lady than you are gentlemen.” Her quick comeback successfully diffuses the tension, and soon the band is back to squabbling and tuning. Emma watches carefully, examining each man’s process with a practiced eye. When the manager signals that they will be letting people enter, Emma returns to her spot at the bar, orders another martini, and settles in for a night of jazz.

By the time the band finishes an hour later, Emma is certain of two things. One is that there is something addictive about The Chatterbox’s martinis. The second is that she needs to talk to the sax player as soon as she can. She stares intently into her drink, formulating a plan. However, that plan immediately changes when she realizes the very person she wants to see has walked up to the bar and ordered two fingers of whiskey. Deciding to wing it, she starts talking.

“That was some set you played.”

He looks over, seeming surprised that someone has taken notice of him. “Thank you, ma’am,” he politely replies, clearly recognizing her. “Once again, I apologize for what Frankie said earlier. He normally doesn’t have that kind of a mouth on him.”

Emma waves off his apology. “I promise you; I’ve heard worse.” She sticks out her hand. “Emma Nolan.” He takes her hand and gives it a firm shake.

“I’m Kevin Shields.”

“I know.”

He draws back slightly in surprise. “How could you possibly know that?”

Emma contemplates his question for a moment. “Well,” she starts, “I could have overheard Frankie calling you Shields and then later heard them calling you Kevin and put it together that way.” He laughs lightly, acknowledging the possibility. Emma sobers slightly before continuing. “Actually, it was because I recognized your face. I was a friend of Woody’s during the war. He had some pictures of the two of you together from your time at training camp.”

At the mention of the name, Kevin’s face darkens, and he busies himself with his whiskey. Taking a drink, he replies in a very measured voice, “He did, did he? Well, we were good friends. It’s a shame he didn’t make it.” His voice drops. “Too many didn’t make it.”

Emma drops her gaze to her lap and smooths imaginary wrinkles from her pants. “Far, far too many,” she agrees. The sound of the next band tuning reminds her why she struck up the conversation. “Say, Woody never mentioned how good a sax player you are. Is this your full-time gig or just a way of keeping busy?”

“Just a nights-and-weekends thing, I’m afraid,” he says. “I’m actually just starting law school.” Emma raises her eyebrows, impressed. Kevin mistakes her expression for puzzlement and continues to explain, “There were a lot of things that I saw and experienced made me realize how many people don’t have a voice. I want to be able to provide that for them.”

Emma is struck by the sincerity in his voice and takes note of how his measured, polite tone has slipped a bit, becoming more desperate and searching. She files this information away, the drive to do good and make a difference that clearly masks a deeper pain. Emma realizes she’s been quiet just a beat too long. “Well,” she starts, “you certainly know how to keep yourself busy. And what I’m about to say might make things even busier.” She pauses. “I’m putting together a band. Wednesday night, Eddie Sharp is announcing a contest. The best swing bands in the country, going to New York to compete for a shot to be featured in a new movie. Them and their song. And I’m planning on winning.”

Emma takes a sip of her martini, letting her words sink in. She clears her throat, folding her hands as she turns to more fully to face Kevin. “I would like you to be in my band. You’re talented. You’re smart, clearly. I like smart and talented.” She chooses her next words carefully. “And if you’re half as good a person as Woody said you are, then regardless of anything else, I’d want to know you.” She slides a piece of paper out of her bag and jots down her phone number and address. “Think on it. I know this is a lot to ask after only knowing someone for a few minutes. Take the night. Take tomorrow, if you need. Talk it over with your wife, talk it over with whoever. But let me know soon.”

Kevin takes the paper from her, folds it neatly, and slips it into his pocket. “Well, I don’t have a wife. But thank you for the offer. It’s very flattering. I’ll consider it.” He plays nervously with the napkin under his glass. “Now, I don’t know what you’re thinking for how this band will be constructed, but I might know some fellas. I could see if they’d be interested talking to you.”

“That would be great,” Emma says. “Just make sure they’ll be okay with a woman calling the shots. I don’t have time for useless power struggles. They’ve got to come into this knowing who’s boss.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kevin says, giving her a mock salute.

Emma swats at his arm as he lowers it to his side, before pausing and tilting her head, a pensive look on her face. “You know,” she says slowly, “it might not be a bad idea to play up the military angle. This is a ‘Tribute to the Troops’, after all. How better to honor them than by making up a band of veterans?” Her right hand comes up automatically to start tugging on her hair. She catches herself and carefully lowers it down, drumming her fingers against her thigh instead. She shoots Kevin a glance. “Those fellas you know—they wouldn’t happen to be vets, would they?”

His brow furrows as he thinks. “I believe so. But even if they aren’t how hard could it be to find a musical vet in this city?” he finishes with a laugh. Emma chuckles slightly, eyes narrowed as she contemplates these new possibilities. She gets lost in her thoughts, silently going through the possibilities of unwritten songs, songs with lyrics but no melody, songs with melody but no lyrics, and old standards they could pull out while they’re testing out the members. It’s a testament to how many drinks Emma’s had that she doesn’t notice Kevin shifting closer, concern evident on his face, as he tries to get her attention. She doesn’t notice the swell of the music, becoming ever more frantic as the song speeds along towards the final measure. It is only when the audience begins applauding at the same moment Kevin gently touches her arm that Emma violently jerks back to reality, a wild look in her eyes, nearly falling off her stool. Had Kevin not been there to steady her, she would have landed flat on her back.

Still shaken by the unexpected sound and touch, Emma looks for something to ground her. She quickly downs the last of her drink, the familiar burn reminding her where she is and what she’s doing. She takes a breath and forces a smile and a small laugh.

“Well, I guess that’s a sign for me to call it a night,” Emma says, sliding off her stool. She pays her tab, then turns to face Kevin. “It was good to finally meet you, Kevin. I hope you give me a call soon. I could really use someone like you.” Emma shakes his hand a final time and heads for the door. She hears Kevin hurrying after her and groans internally, anticipating the ‘gentlemanly’ behavior to follow. He’ll insist on calling her a cab, she’ll insist she’s fine, he’ll ignore her and do it anyway. It’s a tired routine, yet it occurs far too often for her liking.

Kevin catches up to her just as she steps out onto the sidewalk. The unbearable heat of the day has given way to a comfortably warm evening and Emma savors the smell of the fresh air. She closes her eyes and lets the sounds of the city wash over her. The faint music of the bands at the nearby bars, the mechanical hum of streetlights, the whoosh of passing cars. It all sounds like home. She stands motionless, just listening. Kevin stands three feet away, watching. Finally, his gaze becomes too much to bear. Emma opens her eyes and raises a single brow, daring him to speak. He shifts uncomfortably, searching for the right words.

“I just wanted to say that I’m glad Woody had a friend like you. He was one of my closest friends and I wish we’d been able to finish out our service together. But knowing there were people watching his back who cared gives some comfort.”

Kevin doesn’t look up from the ground once while he talks. He could easily be an imposing figure, as he still is in peak military shape. Despite this, he seems to be trying to melt into the ground under Emma’s gaze. It’s a curious sight: a muscular man practically cowering in front of a woman. But if any passers by notice, none care enough to stop and ask. Emma appraises Kevin with a critical eye. Slowly, she gives him a small smile, one which grows considerably as she watches his shoulders visibly relax.

“Thank you, Kevin. I appreciate that.” Emma adjusts the strap of her handbag, preventing it from creasing her blouse. “Now, I must be going. I’ll anticipate your decision by tomorrow.” With a final smile, she turns and walks purposefully down the sidewalk towards the trolley stop. At the stop, she surreptitiously looks back at the entrance of The Chatterbox. Kevin is no longer outside, presumably having returned to collect his instrument and finish his drink. Emma walks past the small group waiting for the trolley, crosses the street, and keeps going.

* * *

The glamor and excitement of Indiana Avenue fades away and is replaced with corner stores and neighborhood bars. The smell of fried food lingers in the air, getting stronger as Emma approaches an unfamiliar bar. A freshly painted sign declares _“OLIVER’S WELCOMES HOME OUR BOYS IN UNIFORM.”_ Stepping through the door, propped open in an effort to combat the earlier heat, it becomes clear that, unfortunately, there is not a band playing tonight. Instead, a jukebox sitting in the corner plays an uninspiring song about love and heartbreak. Emma heads to the bar.

She slides onto an empty stool next to a gregarious young woman with a mass of dark curls that are starting to escape their once-neat bun. Emma attempts to get the bartender’s attention, but the young man is completely focused on the force of nature in front of him. The woman finally notices Emma’s arrival and immediately draws her in to the conversation.

“Oh, hello there! What’ll you be having? Oh, Jimmy, put it on my tab, I’ve kept her waiting for too long.” The woman shoos Jimmy away. Dazed, he glances over at Emma, who orders scotch, neat.

“So, what brings you in?” Emma’s new self-appointed friend asks. Jimmy returns with the scotch. Emma sips it before answering.

“A little bit of everything, I suppose.” It’s true enough, and hopefully will be enough to indicate that she’s not in a particularly chatty mood.

It is not.

The woman purses her lips and nods, her bubbly mood suddenly replaced by a somber one. “Yesterday was one of those days for me,” she admits. She plasters a grin on her face and says, “But today isn’t and I decided to celebrate with some tequila.”

Emma raises her glass. “I’ll drink to that.” She takes a drink, eyeing the woman over the rim of the glass. The curls that have escaped from her bun frame her face attractively, but Emma isn’t paying attention to her face. What draws her attention is the bun. The same style bun Emma and all her fellow Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps recruits were taught.

“You served.” It’s not a question.

“So did you,” the woman shoots back.

Emma masks her surprise with a small smile. “What gave me away?”

The woman gives a self-satisfied smirk as she says, “You took the seat closest to the wall, facing the door. Your eyes haven’t been still once, you are obviously on high alert, and you have probably figured out the age and occupation of every single person in here just by looking at what they’re drinking. Oh, and you have definitely had more than a few drinks already and came here so you could save face at the other bar and pretend you are completely fine.” She sits back and folds her hands in her lap. “So. How’d I do?”

Emma blinks. It’s not often someone sees right through her like this. She shakes her head, trying to formulate a response.

“Extraordinarily well, considering I don’t even know your name.”

The woman smiles and holds out her hand. “Shelby Gonzales, WASP class 44-W-6.”

“Emma Nolan,” Emma says. She pauses for a moment before releasing Shelby’s hand.

Shelby picks up her glass. “Well, Emma. You said you served. What is it that you did, exactly?” Before Emma can respond, Shelby’s face lights up in excitement. “No, don’t tell me. Let me guess.” Her brow furrows in thought. “Hmm, let’s see. You were a…spy. Deep behind enemy lines and…your safety was compromised so you had to come home.” She finishes with an expectant look.

Emma is relieved when Shelby bursts out laughing, as though her description was the most ridiculous story ever. Between gasps of air, Shelby manages, “I kid, I kid. So, what was it? WAC?”

“Yes. Spent two and a half years in Pennsylvania, of all places,” Emma adds with a laugh. “Trained as a radio operator. I wanted to be an air traffic controller, but I suppose I was too good. They said they needed me as a radio operator, so I stayed a radio operator.” She finishes with a shrug, turning her attention back to her now-empty glass. She flags down Jimmy and asks for another.

Shelby tilts her head, clearly unconvinced, but decides not to push. “Alright then. I told you what gave you away. What gave me away?”

Emma chuckles as she gestures vaguely towards Shelby’s hair. “Your bun. I’d know that standard-issue bun anywhere.” Shelby’s hand flutters to the back of her head, patting around. She seems surprised to find the bun still in place.

“Huh. I didn’t even realize I’d put it in a bun today.” She shakes her head and brings her hand back to rest on the bar. Clicking her tongue, she runs a finger around the rim of her glass. “Look at us. Here we are at a bar that is supposed to be celebrating veterans and yet we’re never going to get the welcome home we deserve.” Shelby tosses back the last of her tequila just as Jimmy places another one in front of her.

“He seems to be rather fond of you,” Emma observes.

“Who, Jimmy?” Shelby brushes the idea off. “He’s a sweet kid. I’ve come in once or twice a week since I came back and he hangs onto my every word. He’s not really my type, but it’s nice to have someone listen.”

Emma nods in understanding. “I can’t blame you. But, say, I’m here now and I have nothing better to do. Let’s have our own celebration, right here, right now.” She turns to where Jimmy is standing a few feet away, wiping down some glasses and pretending not to eavesdrop. “Another round, please. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

* * *

It’s nearing closing time and Shelby and Emma are laughing over nothing, half-drunk cups of coffee in front of them on the bar. Around midnight Jimmy decided to cut them off from alcohol and made the executive decision to brew a pot of coffee to sober them up enough to make it home.

“So, she’s just standing there in her pajamas, hair soaking wet, holding a screwdriver and has the audacity to say she’s ready for inspection,” Shelby says while Emma howls with laughter. Emma fans her face, trying to get her composure back.

Still chuckling, she asks, “Where is she now? Does she live in the area?” Emma immediately regrets asking. Shelby’s face crumples and she suddenly becomes intensely interested in the cup in front of her. She takes a deep breath before speaking.

“Uh, no. She doesn’t. She, um, actually didn’t make it back,” Shelby says in a choked voice. “A training accident. Only 38 WASPS total died due to training accidents and she was one of them.” She lets out a humorless laugh. “Of course she was. She was always so, _so_ lucky. But when it counted most…” she trails off, the unsaid words hanging in the air.

Emma reaches over and squeezes Shelby’s hand. “I know. I lost more than a few friends in my time. One in particular I especially miss. Especially because I know he’s somewhere out there berating me for being such a coward.” Shelby finally looks up from her coffee cup, brows furrowed, waiting for an explanation. Emma pauses, unsure if she wants to share her deepest shame with a practical stranger. She realizes that, with the amount of alcohol they both have consumed, there is a more than fair chance Shelby won’t remember a thing in the morning.

“During my training to be a radio operator, I became friends with this guy. We really hit it off and pretty soon we were inseparable. He deployed; I was back on base. But we kept in touch. He asked me to hold on to some of his personal items because he wanted to be sure they were safe. It turned out to be a good decision. He was captured, taken as a POW. We don’t know the details of what happened but what is certain is that he’s never coming home. And now I have his journals and letters and photos, and I have been too scared to go and face his fiancée and actually give them to her.”

Emma’s voice breaks. “I’ve been staring at those journals, I’ve been staring at those letters for too long. I’ve walked down her street, past her house so many times. And I can’t bring myself to go up, knock, and say, ‘Hello, I have your dead fiancé’s things, sorry it’s taken me so long to bring them to you, I just couldn’t bear seeing your face and being the one to break your heart again.’” She takes a breath, unclenching her fists once she notices her nails digging into her palms. Tears start burning at the corners of her eyes and she blinks them away before they can escape.

Shelby is quiet for a moment, thinking hard. She drains the rest of her coffee, sets the cup down, and reaches for Emma’s hands. She gives them a hard squeeze, then says, “Here is what you’re going to do. You’re going to go home. You’re going to get a good night’s sleep. And tomorrow, you’re going to go to her house and talk to her. Don’t bring the journals this time. Just reach out as a friend at first. Does that sound doable?”

Emma nods. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.” She nods more firmly, trying to convince herself. The clock over the bar strikes 1 am and she notices that they are the only two patrons remaining. She hurriedly suggests they settle up their tab so poor Jimmy can get on with cleaning up the place. The pair make their way outside, walking back towards the same trolley stop Emma ignored just hours before. Had it really just been hours since she left Kevin at The Chatterbox? It might as well have been a lifetime. A million thoughts are flying through Emma’s mind, many of them slightly foggy from alcohol. But something she’d noticed earlier comes back in perfect clarity.

She stops in the middle of the sidewalk and turns to face Shelby. “You play an instrument.” An observation, not a question.

Shelby stops in her tracks, thrown off guard. “I do,” she confirms.

“The callouses on your fingertips. Must be a string instrument. Which one?”

“Double bass.”

Now it’s Emma’s turn to be surprised. “That was not what I was expecting at all. Are you any good?”

“Good?” Shelby asks incredulously. “I’m fantastic. It was the only way my parents would let me play. I had to be better than everyone else, otherwise they would have made me stick with the violin, could you _imagine_?” Emma, unsure of the correct response, simply nods along as Shelby continues on a tirade against violins until she pauses for breath. Jumping in before Shelby starts up again, Emma gets to her point.

“I’m putting together a band to compete in a radio contest Eddie Sharp will be announcing Wednesday. It’s a ‘Tribute to the Troops’. I’ve almost certainly got a sax, he might be getting some other fellas, but I’d sure like to have you be a part of it too.” She starts rummaging in her bag for her paper and pen. Emma scribbles her phone number and address and hands the paper to Shelby. “Let me know if you’d be interested.”

Shelby considers the piece of paper in her hand. She looks up and meets Emma’s eyes, a devious smile on her face. “I’ll make you a deal. You promise to go talk to your friend’s fiancée tomorrow, and give me proof that you actually followed through, and I’ll join your band.”

An uncharacteristic hopefulness washes over Emma. She shakes Shelby’s hand with determination.

“Deal.”

* * *

Twelve hours later, Emma finds herself standing in front of the cute yellow house on North Pennsylvania Street she’s walked past countless times. This time, however, she walks up the steps. This time, she knocks on the front door. This time, she doesn’t run away.

This time she will finally meet Alyssa Greene.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Greene,” Emma says softly. 
> 
> “The pleasure was mine, Miss Nolan.”
> 
> Emma pretends those words don’t affect her in any way. Glancing over Alyssa’s shoulder, she realizes the shoebox is still sitting on the coffee table. 
> 
> “Before I go, I just wanted to say that, while I’m very sorry that we met under these circumstances, more sorry than you can know, I am glad to have met you,” Emma says earnestly. 
> 
> Alyssa smiles gently. “And I you.”
> 
> Emma opens the door. “Goodnight, Alyssa.” As she walks away, she thinks she hears the faintest “Goodnight” in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would ya look at that, we have an update! Sorry it's been *checks calendar* three months. But life happened. And then didn't happen. And next thing you know, it's three months later and you get a kick in the ass (thanks for that, babe) and finish the chapter four days later. So here's to a (probably very choppy, semi-coherent) update! Let's hope chapter 3 doesn't take another 3 months.
> 
> By the way, at the request of exactly 1 person (I originally wrote 0, but I was reminded that was a lie, my apologies Brooklyn), I made a playlist for this fic. Each of the songs featured will be added as we go along (because I can't plan that far in advance). So check it out if you want! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2VROKcPLqbr783HSTXIvH0?si=P7WndfXXQk24Tu_AmMNTZw

A sharp knock at the door interrupts Alyssa Greene’s staring match with the uncooperative pie crust sitting in a crumbly blob on the counter. Wiping her hands on her apron, she points an accusing finger at the crust. “This isn’t over,” she warns.

She frantically straightens her collar and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear in a halfhearted attempt at making herself presentable in the ten seconds it takes to cross from the kitchen to the front door. Alyssa pauses for a moment in front of the mirror hanging in the hall and forces herself to smile. Satisfied that she’s acquired a pleasant enough expression, she opens the door.

She’s not quite sure who she’s expecting to be on the other side, but she would never have guessed it would be a blonde woman in a neat short-sleeved blue blouse and off-white pants. Or for the unknown woman to take Alyssa’s breath away.

The woman stares at Alyssa, seeming startled that someone had answered the door. She pushes a piece of hair behind her ear and readjusts her glasses slightly in one fluid, practiced movement. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.

“Can I help you?” Alyssa prompts.

The woman straightens up slightly and squares her shoulders, her demeanor suddenly becoming businesslike. Sticking her hand out, she introduces herself. “Ma’am. I’m Emma Nolan. I was a friend of Greg’s.”

Alyssa freezes mid-handshake. The last thing she was expecting to hear on a Monday afternoon is that the gorgeous woman who appeared at her door is—or, was—a friend of her dead fiancé. Her brow furrows as her mind goes into overdrive. She’s trying to piece together how they would have known each other, where they crossed paths. More importantly, what would prompt her to be here _now_ , when it had been over a year since his death?

Through the spiraling thoughts and questions, a vague memory surfaces. _Nolan._

“Nolan, did you say?” Alyssa asks. Emma nods in affirmation. Alyssa’s mind settles. She quirks her mouth into a half-smile. “Gregory mentioned you. He only ever called you Nolan and I just assumed this mystery person was one of the boys. I don’t normally enjoy being wrong, but I will admit that this is an exception.”

Emma’s shoulders relax the slightest bit, her blouse lying more evenly across the muscles. “I’m honored to be an exception, Miss Greene.” She’s aiming for charming, but her nerves make her sound cocky. Surreptitiously wiping her sweaty palms on her pants, Emma says, “Greg and I met early on and became fast friends. Once we—er, once he was given his orders, he asked me for a favor. He asked me to check in on his family, should anything happen to him.” She looks down at her feet, focusing intently on the well-worn leather. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to fulfill that promise.”

Emma finally meets Alyssa’s eyes. The pain and sorrow she finds breaks Alyssa’s heart. She barely knows this woman. Not even that, she _doesn’t_ know this woman. But in the minute she’s been at Alyssa’s door, some hidden corner of Alyssa’s brain has decided it wants to know everything about her.

It’s terrifying.

It’s too sudden, too overwhelming. So, Alyssa does what she does best. She pretends she doesn’t notice. She takes a sudden interest in the hem of her apron. A thread has come loose. She’ll need to mend it before it all starts to unravel.

“Well. I appreciate you being here now.” She manages to keep her voice even, ignoring her pounding heart and clammy hands. Alyssa clears her throat. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. Would you like to come in?”

To her surprise, Emma takes a step back, shaking her head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t impose. I clearly interrupted your morning, and I actually do have an appointment I should be getting to.” She hesitates before continuing. “Greg left some of his personal effects with me—a few journals and some snapshots. I should have brought them with me today. I just wasn’t convinced I’d actually go through with knocking.” She swallows nervously, saying, “I don’t want to assume, but if you’d like those items, I could bring them by sometime.”

Alyssa’s traitorous heart leaps at the idea of seeing Emma again. With a composed smile, and in a remarkably calm voice she says, “Yes, I’d like that very much. How about tomorrow? My mother and I have church in the morning, but we should be home no later than noon. If you come around 5 and don’t mind being subjected to some sort of casserole, you’re more than welcome to stay for dinner.”

She can’t believe she is being so bold. She doesn’t know this woman and yet she’s inviting her to dinner the next night. Alyssa chastises herself for being so reckless.

“That sounds lovely, Miss Greene,” Emma replies softly. “Thank you. I’ll be here at 4:30. You have a nice day.” She inclines her head slightly, turns, and leaves.

Alyssa crosses to the porch railing, watching as Emma gets smaller and smaller as she walks away. Once she loses sight of her, she goes back inside. Closing the door, she pushes sweaty strands of hair back from her face. Returning to the kitchen, she stares at the pile of crust, still sitting on the counter. Alyssa shakes her head in disbelief. _What has she gotten herself into_?

* * *

“Hey, Gran! Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” Emma bursts through Betsy Nolan’s front door in a whirl of energy. She strides into the kitchen, immediately rummaging through cabinets in search of a vase for the small bouquet of flowers she’d purchased on her way over.

Betsy steps back from the pot simmering on the stove and crosses her arms, eyebrows sky-high as she takes in her tornado of a granddaughter. Emma finds what she’s looking for and starts arranging the flowers. Betsy clears her throat.

Emma doesn’t look up. “Hm?”

Betsy walks over and flicks her on the back of the head. “If you’re going to walk into my house and destroy it in less than a minute, the least you could do is to kiss your dear, old grandmother in the process.”

“Oh Gran, you’re not old, you’re just vintage,” Emma sooths, pecking Betsy on the cheek. Betsy narrows her eyes.

“Emma Elizabeth Nolan, I am thirty seconds away from kicking you out of this house. Leave those flowers alone and come help me cook.”

They move around the kitchen in harmony, Emma so familiar with her grandmother’s routine that she could assist her blindfolded. The rhythmic pattern of chopping calms Emma’s frantic mind. A jazzy voice comes out of the radio in the other room.

 _“I know a little bit about a lot of things, but I don’t know enough about you,”_ Peggy Lee croons teasingly. _“You get me in a spin, oh, what a stew I’m in. ‘Cause I don’t know enough about you.”_

Emma freezes. She’s heard the song many times before. She’s hummed along for years. But this is new.

_“Jack of all trades, master of none. And isn’t it a shame? I’m so sure that you’d be good for me if you’d only play my game.”_

Oh no. Oh _no_. 

_“You know I went to school, and I’m nobody’s fool. That is to say until I met you! I know a little bit about a lot of things, but I don’t know enough about you.”_

Her mind kicks into overdrive. No, no this cannot be happening. Not Alyssa. Not her dead friend’s grieving fiancée. She wrinkles her nose in disgust at herself. How could she ever think that, even subconsciously? Sure, Alyssa is even more beautiful in person than she’d imagined she’d be. And yes, she looked adorable with flour smeared across her apron and unruly curls framing her face. But she can’t. Alyssa is off-limits to her heart.

Emma swallows down the wave of disappointment. She glances around the kitchen. Would Gran notice if she had a bit of brandy before dinner?

“If you’re done dawdling, I’d love to get those tomatoes in the sauce before it all evaporates,” Betsy calls out, her amused voice cutting through Emma’s reverie. Emma blinks a few times before the diced tomato on her cutting board comes into focus. Wordlessly, she passes them over to Betsy, still trying to make sense of her unwanted realization. God, she needs a drink.

When Emma emerges from her fog, she finds herself sitting on the worn sofa in Betsy’s sitting room. She’s grasping a cup of coffee, Betsy’s preferred after-dinner beverage. Some of the coffee sloshes onto her hand, burning the skin and startling her back to reality.

“Shit,” Emma exclaims, jumping up and hurrying to the kitchen. She runs her hand under some water and starts searching for a clean towel, not noticing her grandmother has followed her. Betsy opens a narrow drawer next to the sink, gently nudging Emma towards it. As Emma wraps her hand, Betsy studies her.

“It’s good to know you can still talk,” she quips.

Emma frowns in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I be able to talk?”

“Well you didn’t say a word all through dinner, so I thought maybe my cooking was so awful it rendered you speechless,” Betsy sighs forlornly. “Or maybe my only granddaughter finally got tired of her feeble grandmother and didn’t know how to tell her she won’t be returning for a visit ever again.”

“Oh Gran, you know I’ll never leave you!” Emma brushes off the attempted guilt-trip. “I just have a lot on my mind right now.”

Betsy perks up. “Well, why didn’t you say so. Come now, take your coffee and let’s sit. If I’m going to have to pry every detail out of you, I’m going to rest my feet while doing so.” She leads them back into the sitting room, heading straight for the blue floral chair to the right of the godforsaken radio. Emma returns to her spot on the sofa.

She can’t lie to her Gran. It should be second nature. She’s survived many situations she shouldn’t have because of her skills, lying (or “subterfuge” as her instructors preferred to call it) being one of her most practiced. Yet the idea of attempting to outright lie to the one person in her life who loves her unconditionally nauseates her. So, she figures her best option is to strategically omit some information. Yes. That will work.

Emma decides to stick to the events of the day. “This morning I paid a visit to the fiancée of a buddy of mine from overseas. I’d promised him I’d check in on her if things went south. He left some personal items with me, so I’m going to be bringing them to her tomorrow. She invited me over for dinner.” Emma shrugs a bit. “Apparently her mother is making a casserole.”

Betsy nods. “I’m glad you’re fulfilling your promise. Not that I’d expect anything less,” she fixes a stern gaze at Emma. “I’m wondering why you haven’t mentioned it before now, though.”

Emma shifts uncomfortably. “It didn’t seem important, and I had other things to do, I suppose.”

“Hm.”

Emma sips her coffee, praying that Betsy will, for once in her life, let it go.

She does not.

“It’s nice to hear you’ve been oh-so busy. I was getting worried that you were sitting at home banging your head against a wall all day.” Emma chuckles uneasily, shoving aside the mental image of the empty liquor bottles lining the countertops of her apartment. “Now, where exactly will you be tomorrow? I want to know where to send the search party if you don’t come home.” Betsy holds up her hands placatingly as Emma starts to protest. “I know you can take care of yourself, but please, humor me? After all, my old heart can’t take any more stress. I worry about you.”

“I know, Gran,” Emma softly replies. She clears her throat. “It’s up on North Pennsylvania. 2405.”

Betsy’s face lights up. “Oh my goodness! You didn’t tell me you knew Alyssa!”

“I, um, I didn’t, at least not really. Not before today. How do you know her?”

“Oh, her mother and I were in the same book club at church! She’s such a lovely woman, Veronica, I’m sure you’ll love her. And isn’t Alyssa just fabulous? She’s exceptionally bright, a wonderful conversationalist,” Betsy gushes. She pauses slightly before adding, “Quite beautiful too, wouldn’t you say?”

Emma sputters into her coffee. “Uh, yes, yes I suppose she is,” she says, wiping her cheek with the towel still wrapped around her hand. “I guess I was a bit preoccupied and didn’t really focus on her appearance,” she lies.

Betsy quirks an eyebrow, unconvinced. Emma tries not to fidget under her gaze. She feels like she’s being run through an x-ray machine. Betsy’s always had an uncanny ability to know Emma’s innermost thoughts just by looking at her. It amazes and frustrates her endlessly.

After an eternity, Betsy relents.

“I’m sure you’re going to have a wonderful time, my dear. Oh, and, if Veronica serves deviled eggs, be sure to eat some. They’re not the best, but she tries hard.”

* * *

“Alyssa! Where did I put the paprika! I want to set everything up tonight, so I don’t have to waste time on it tomorrow,” Veronica Greene shouts through the house. She stops at the foot of the stairs, hands on hips, impatiently waiting for her daughter to emerge. “Alyssa? Did you hear me?”

A door closes and Alyssa appears, hurrying down the stairs past her mother. She bustles into the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets and drawers.

“Here,” she places the paprika in Veronica’s hand. “Now if I’m not needed for anything else…”

“Where are you running off to?” Veronica asks. Alyssa hesitates. “Just to my room,” she finally replies.

“And what is so important that you need to spend every minute in there on this fine evening?”

Alyssa looks down as she chews the inside of her cheek. She takes a breath and says, “I was reading some of his letters again.” All of Veronica’s annoyance melts away.

“Oh, sweetheart. Come here.” She wraps Alyssa in her arms, feeling hot tears against her neck. Alyssa makes no noise as she cries. The days of audible wailing and sobs are long gone. She’s now an expert at making sure no one hears her sorrow.

Veronica carefully steers Alyssa into the living room, settling them both down on the sofa. She wishes she could take away the pain. It’s been over a year of torment, of sleepless nights for both of them. Greg and Alyssa should have been married by now. Maybe there would have been a child running around. All she knows is that this house would be filled with happiness. There would be joyful firsts and celebrations of achievements that now will never be. In their place were painful firsts. The day Greg was due home. The wedding day coming and going without a wedding. Her birthday. His birthday. The day she finally took off her ring.

Alyssa shifts away from Veronica. She pulls out a handkerchief to dry her eyes. With a slight smile, she also dries the side of Veronica’s neck. “Sorry,” she apologizes. Veronica takes her left hand and squeezes.

“Sweetheart,” she starts. “What happened? You were so excited earlier. Tomorrow should be nice! From what Betsy’s told me she’s lovely.”

“She is, she really is,” Alyssa agrees, “but it’s not that.” She sighs. “I am excited about hopefully making a friend. Or at least an acquaintance? I don’t know. I’m looking forward to getting to know Emma. I’m just dreading everything else that’s going to come with it.”

Veronica tucks a curl behind Alyssa’s ear. “What specifically are you dreading?”

She’s quiet for a moment before she looks up, eyes shining, and meets Veronica’s worried gaze. “The truth. I don’t know if I want to know more about what he saw, what he experienced. I’ve gotten comfortable with the not knowing. Yes, it hurts, and yes, I need answers, but I don’t know if I can go through it again. I’ve come too far. I’ve been healing. I don’t know how much more I can take.” A shadow passes over her face and she clenches her jaw. “Some of the girls at work are already asking when I’m going to find somebody else. They would never ask Carrie, noooooo, that would be rude! How could you be so insensitive to ask a _gold star wife_ when she’s going to find another man. But me? Oh, we were never married so I’ve got to go out and snatch someone off the street before I’m deemed undesirable by society, which is apparently in, I don’t know, maybe two years?” Alyssa takes a breath and swallows hard. “I’m just starting to feel like myself again. I can’t lose that. I can’t.” 

Veronica strokes her cheek, her heart breaking for her daughter. “You won’t,” she reassures. “Yes, it will be hard to see his journals and hear stories about him. But they’re just additions to the collection that show how wonderful a person he was. And you get to hold onto that forever.”

Alyssa leans her cheek into her mother’s hand. In a barely audible whisper, she admits, “I miss him, Mom. I miss my best friend.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know,” Veronica leans in and kisses her forehead. “Now. Let’s get you a cup of tea and then off to bed. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

* * *

The first hints of fall are in the air as Emma wanders aimlessly through the streets of Indianapolis. She couldn’t sit at home staring at Greg’s journals all day, and she’d already called Shelby, so there wasn’t much else for her to do. She’d tried sitting down and brainstorming ideas for songs, but nothing came. So, Emma decided to do what she always did when she got a creative block: walk. As a child, walking and wandering was a way to get herself out of the house and away from criticism. Now, it allows her to think.

Unfortunately, the only thing on her mind is the first song she heard on the radio this morning.

_It’s not the pale moon that excites me_

_That thrills and delights me_

_Oh no, it’s just the nearness of you._

_It isn’t your sweet conversation_

_That brings this sensation_

_Oh no, it’s just the nearness of you._

Emma wraps her coat tighter around her waist, hoping that the action will somehow get Ray Eberle’s voice out of her head. She’d never paid much attention to it before, but it seems like every single song on the radio is about love, or falling in love, or how wonderful love is.

She wants to punch every single one of those songwriters in the face. And maybe the singers too, just for good measure. They’re making her focus on the wrong thing right now. She needs to write some new songs for her not-yet-assembled band so that, once they’re all together, she can focus on coming up with something worthy of being in a movie.

No pressure.

Organ music drifts down the street. Confused, Emma glances around, blinking as she takes in her surroundings. She finds herself in front of St. John’s, the church she’d attend with her grandparents when she was a child. It’s an impressive building, the twin spires flanking the entrance towering over the surrounding structures. The doors are propped open, the people packed inside inevitably grateful for the slight autumnal breeze.

Emma pauses on the sidewalk, listening. Though she can’t hear the words distinctly, she recognizes the pattern, the call and response between the priest and the congregation, Latin phrases she once knew by heart. Slowly, she approaches. It’s been years since she entered a church with any intention of appealing to an almighty power, but she’s searching for a miracle and this might be a good place to start. She crosses the threshold.

The air is different. Maybe it’s the dust, maybe it’s the presence of God. Emma’s not sure, but it tickles her nose. She stands just to the left of the doorway, partially hidden by a column. A chord rings out through the church. The organist glances to his right and nods. A choir member steps out of line and approaches the lectern.

The soloist takes a breath and begins to sing.

_Pie jesu, pie jesu_

_Qui tollis peccata mundi_

_Pie jesu, pie jesu_

_Donna eis_

_Donna eis_

_Donna eis requiem_

Emma watches the soloist return to the choir and finds herself unable to catch her breath. The tone was clear, a beautiful soprano, with light vibrato on the held notes. In different times, she would have paid to hear that kind of a voice. The purity, the fragility. She wants to wrap it up and protect it from the horrors of the world. But it wasn’t the voice alone that has caused Emma to still be frozen in the shadows of the church. No, she’s become a statue because it was Alyssa Greene’s voice.

Alyssa Greene. Greg’s beautiful, talented, charming fiancée, who just so happens to have invited her over for dinner tonight.

Emma decides that if she somehow makes it through the evening in one piece, it will be proof that God is real, and He has a sick sense of humor.

* * *

For the second time in two days, a knock on the door draws Alyssa out of the kitchen. This time, though, she is expecting it. She’s been expecting it for 30 minutes, having had a sneaking suspicion that Emma would be early. She takes her time, calming her racing heart with a few deep breaths, smoothing her dress, and checking her makeup in the mirror again. She swallows her nerves and pulls open the door.

_Not again._

And for the second time in two days, Emma manages to take her breath away just by standing in front of her door. Blue seems to be the theme of the evening, between Emma’s royal blue skirt and pale blue blouse and Alyssa’s own navy dress. Emma chuckles a bit as she makes the same connection.

Gesturing between the two of them, she says, “I suppose I should have called ahead to make sure the color wasn’t already taken.” Alyssa smiles in amazement. How is she so confident that she can make jokes immediately. Is she this way with everyone? It’s no wonder she and Gregory were friends. He also drew everyone to him, making everyone feel like they’d known each other forever.

Alyssa realizes that she is still blocking the doorway, and hurriedly steps aside, broadly sweeping her arm in what is intended to be a welcoming motion. “Please, come in! My mother is putting the finishing touches on dinner, but she set some hors d’oeuvres in the living room. I thought maybe we could wait there until she’s all done?” Alyssa rambles.

“Lead the way,” Emma agrees.

Just to the left of the front entrance is the living room. A large room for the size of the house, yet there is not an inch of space wasted. A faded floral sofa sits against the wall, facing the fireplace. A well-worn leather armchair is positioned near the hearth, angled towards the mahogany coffee table in front of the sofa. Bookshelves stretch up to the ceiling, all full and meticulously alphabetized. But the most eye-catching part of the room is the baby grand piano in the far corner.

Alyssa glances over her shoulder, a quip about her mother’s deviled eggs dying on her lips. Emma is not behind her anymore. She is over by the piano, one hand gently stroking the polished wood. She looks back at Alyssa, eyes watery.

“Do you mind? It’s been so long since I played an instrument this beautiful.”

Not even waiting for a response, she moves the piano bench into position and sits. Glancing at Alyssa for confirmation, she holds her hands above the keys for a moment, hesitant to make a sound. Emma closes her eyes and lets the music take over.

All Alyssa can do is sit in awe and listen. The song starts at a moderate speed, never dull, always moving. Steadily, the tempo increases. Before long, Emma’s hands are flying across the keys, the tempo reaching a breakneck pace. Each section cycles through a similar pattern with the melody always easily discernible amongst a frenzy of arpeggios.

Emma keeps her eyes closed.

Alyssa keeps her eyes on Emma.

The gentle resolution of the song gives Alyssa a few moments to wipe her tears before Emma comes out of her trance. Emma looks down at her hands, now resting in her lap, and blushes a bit.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. You invite me over and the first thing I do is ignore everything for your piano.”

Alyssa shakes her head furiously. “No, no, please don’t apologize. It was wonderful to hear it in use again. It’s been far too long. I’m honestly surprised it’s still in tune.” She wants to say it was perfect. She wants to ask if she’ll play more.

Instead she asks the name of the piece.

“That was Liszt’s _Liebestraüme No. 3_. I can’t remember the last time I played it. Muscle memory really is astounding,” Emma remarks.

“Liszt…is that German?” Alyssa asks.

“Hungarian, actually,” Emma replies. “Although I suppose the name is German, but he was Hungarian. The song is based on some German poems.”

“A piano piece based on poems?” Alyssa furrows her brow.

Emma shrugs. “It’s fairly common. Music is able to convey emotions without words. It’s one of the things I love most about it. I can’t always find the words for what I’m feeling, but I can always play it.” She’s focusing intently on the piano bench, running her thumb along the grain, still avoiding Alyssa’s gaze. Her hand bumps the shoebox beside her. She’d forgotten all about it, and its contents, in her excitement.

She clears her throat. “I suppose I should give this to you. Before I forget, I mean.” She picks up the box and sets it on the coffee table. “I thought you might like to go through the journals by yourself. There are some snapshots in there as well. I don’t know everyone in them, but Greg labeled them pretty well.”

It takes Alyssa a moment to react. Her mind is still focused on the music, having blissfully forgotten why Emma is here. But her hands act on their own. They lift the lid to reveal a picture of Greg in his uniform standing on a tarmac, his arms wrapped around the shoulders of two unfamiliar men. They are all grinning, eyes squinted against bright sunlight.

She puts the lid back on.

“Thank you,” Alyssa says in a shaky voice. She takes a steadying breath. “I appreciate this. And you were right,” she manages a tiny smile, “I will go through these later.” Desperate to find a topic that’s not horribly depressing, she resorts to small talk.

She hates small talk. But she hates silence more.

“I have to admit that I’m embarrassed I didn’t put it together that Betsy Nolan is your grandmother,” Alyssa starts. “With the amount of time my mother spent with her during that book club, I should have made the connection.”

Emma waves the apology away. “While it might not be the most common name, Nolan is hardly uncommon. I didn’t even know Gran knew your family until she just about fell out of her seat after I told her I was having dinner here.”

The thought of an elderly woman falling out of a chair shouldn’t be a laughing matter, and yet it elicits a true laugh from Alyssa.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says between gasps of air. “I shouldn’t laugh, but Betsy? No, it’s not possible. She’s unflappable!”

“Would I lie to you?” Emma asks, a smile in her voice.

Alyssa considers the question.

“No,” she concludes. “No, you wouldn’t.”

* * *

“Mrs. Greene, thank you for your hospitality this evening. Everything was wonderful,” Emma says, standing up from the dinner table.

Veronica blushes as she gathers the plates. “You’re too kind. Thank you, dear. And please, call me Veronica.” She disappears into the kitchen, pointedly ignoring Alyssa asking if she would like assistance.

Alyssa sighs. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Emma chuckles. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimes. Counting the tolls, Emma’s eyes grow wide. “Is it really that late?” she asks, pushing up her sleeve to check her watch. “My goodness, it really is.”

“Emma, it’s okay,” Alyssa calms. Emma’s hands are shaking. She clenches her fists, relishing the sensation of her nails pressing into her palms. “It’s just nine o’clock. The streetcars run until midnight now. You have plenty of time to get home.”

Right. The streetcars.

“Oh, yes. I forgot,” Emma says. The streetcars. She was worried about the streetcars. She was not worried about breaking curfew, since there are not, and had not been, curfews here. “In any case, I have imposed on your hospitality far too long.” Alyssa opens her mouth to argue, but Emma won’t let her. “Please don’t misunderstand me, I have had a wonderful time. But I am sure you have other things to attend to tonight and you don’t need me lingering needlessly.”

Emma sticks her head into the kitchen to thank Mrs. Gre—Veronica once more, then meets Alyssa at the front door. Alyssa’s eyes are unfocused, her mind clearly a million miles away. Emma clears her throat.

“Well. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Greene,” Emma says softly.

“The pleasure was mine, Miss Nolan.”

Emma pretends those words don’t affect her in any way. Glancing over Alyssa’s shoulder, she realizes the shoebox is still sitting on the coffee table.

“Before I go, I just wanted to say that, while I’m very sorry that we met under these circumstances, more sorry than you can know, I am glad to have met you,” Emma says earnestly.

Alyssa smiles gently. “And I you.”

Emma opens the door. “Goodnight, Alyssa.” As she walks away, she thinks she hears the faintest “Goodnight” in response.

* * *

The clock strikes eleven. Veronica has long since finished cleaning the kitchen and has made her way up to bed. Alyssa, on the other hand, has not moved in nearly two hours.

She sits on the sofa, staring at the shoebox Emma brought, trying to force herself to open it once more, just for a second. She gave half a thought to shoving it in a drawer and never letting it see the light of day again, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She can’t do that to Gregory. He wanted her to have these journals. He wanted her to read them. Why else would he give them to Emma? He mustn’t have wanted them to go to his parents, his next-of-kin. She has to read them.

If only she could open the box.

Coffee. Coffee will help. Coffee always helps.

She takes her time in the kitchen, trying to draw out each step as long as possible. But after 20 minutes, Alyssa finds nothing else to fiddle with, and, with a sigh, pours a cup and returns to the living room.

The shoebox hasn’t moved. Alyssa swallows hard. Her hands shake. It’s the caffeine, she reasons. With tremendous effort, she lifts the lid.

The picture is still there. Gregory and some buddies, grinning, happy, frozen in time. She closes her eyes, letting out a shaky breath. Opening them once more, she realizes it’s the first in a small stack of photos. Steeling herself, she flips through them quickly.

Gregory and his plane.

Gregory and friends.

Friends playing cards.

Gregory and…Emma?

She pauses on this one, trying to make out the background. Emma had said they met early on, but the Gregory in the picture is not the fresh-faced Gregory she sent off to bootcamp with a kiss and a promise to come back to her. No, this Gregory is older, war hardened. Alyssa flips the picture over. No date or description. She makes a mental note to ask Emma about it if she sees her again.

Alyssa pushes the photos to the side. Her mother will want to see those tomorrow. Her hand brushes the cover of the first journal. A small gasp escapes her lips as she recognizes the cracked leather cover. The gold lettering has faded a bit, but the initials are still discernable. G.A.A. Gregory Alder Ash.

Her fiancé.

Her confidant.

Her best friend.

She was the one who had given him this journal. It was a birthday present, the birthday they celebrated together after he was drafted, but before he received his base assignment. They had gone to a nice restaurant with his parents. Partway through the meal, his parents caught sight of some friends and had gone over to chat for a moment. Seizing the opportunity, Alyssa handed him the journal. Even then, the journal felt private, like it was something just for them. He was a wonderful writer and had aspirations of being a journalist. Or a novelist. Or a biographer. Alyssa would tease him constantly about his indecision. His response always was simply to shrug and avert his eyes with a smile. All he knew was he wanted to write; he didn’t care how.

“Write your mind,” Alyssa told him. “Write and remember who you are, who you love. And when you come back, tell me all about it.”

She never anticipated that he wouldn’t be around to tell his stories himself.

She’s stalling again. It would be so easy to open the cover, to turn the pages and read all his thoughts. She doesn’t know if she can. Fleetingly, she imagines someone sitting with her, holding her hand, supporting her through this. Maybe someone who had been there earlier in the evening, whose hands had also held this journal at one point.

No. No, not a chance. Alyssa stares harder at the journal, willing her mind to be quiet, to allow her to read Gregory’s writing in peace. It’s not going to get any easier, she knows. At least not tonight. But if she doesn’t do it tonight, it will consume her thoughts until she gives in.

She opens the journal. And nearly drops it as she reads the first words.

_Dear Lyssa_.

He wrote his journals to her. These were never meant to be sent, never meant for anyone’s eyes but his own. And he wrote them to her.

Her heart swells and aches.

She takes a breath and keeps reading. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since Emma first appeared at her door, she hasn’t left Alyssa’s thoughts. There is now a corner of her mind dedicated to Emma—a corner filled with endless questions she will never ask, observations she wishes she could forget. Like the way Emma adjusts her glasses (gracefully), the way she carries herself (with confidence), the way she loses herself in music (absolutely enchanting). Alyssa wishes she hadn’t noticed any of these things. She wishes she could make herself forget.
> 
> She doesn’t want to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello, it's me, once again taking my sweet time getting around to writing another chapter! Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you and then knocking all motivation away. But it returned just long enough to finish this before the end of the year, so that's something! Anyways, enough about me. Let's get back to our favorite lesbians!
> 
> Spotify link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2VROKcPLqbr783HSTXIvH0?si=ewZIz1vNSSyMQQ95eCEUSQ

Emma has a complicated relationship with waking up. On one hand, it means she actually was able to fall asleep. On the other hand, with consciousness comes memories, many of which she would prefer to leave in the past, where they belong. And on this day, waking up came with an extra annoyance.

The incessant ringing of the telephone.

She drags a hand down her face, trying to wipe the sleep and lingering effects of the late-night bottle of gin from her eyes. Dinner at the Greene’s had gone well. Too well, in fact. When she returned home, she couldn’t stop buzzing. She wanted to sing, dance, shout from the rooftops that she’d just had the happiest night of her life. Instead, she sat at her desk and composed. She wrote lyrics, corresponding chords, tentative arrangements. She plotted out where the horns would be brought out, when the piano would be featured, where the harmonies would sit. In the process, she falls in love with the song, with the beauty and pain and longing it holds. She falls in love with the subject of the song.

She then tried to focus her energy on something else, a jaunty tune celebrating the recently returned soldiers. Something fluffy but patriotic, easy to dance to. She got through the opening instrumentals and the first verse before deciding to turn in. She found a partially finished bottle of gin in her cupboard and made quick work of it to ensure a dreamless sleep. It worked, almost too well.

The phone is still ringing.

Heaving a sigh, Emma throws off the duvet and pushes past the curtain that separates her bed from the rest of the tiny apartment. She stares at the phone sitting on the kitchen table and watches it ring once more. Closing her eyes, she clears her throat and lifts the receiver.

“Hello?” She winces at how rough her voice is.

“Good morning, this is Kevin Shields. Is Emma Nolan available?” Kevin’s overly chipper voice comes over the line.

“This is she. How are you, Kevin?” Emma pretends her throat isn’t on fire and pulls over a wobbly chair.

“I’m doing well, thank you. Unfortunately, I’m in a bit of a rush, so I’ll get right to it.” She hears Kevin take a deep breath. “I might have found some guys for the band.”

Her jaw drops. “You’re kidding. Already?”

He chuckles a bit. “Your reputation precedes you, it seems! I’m in lectures until 2, but if you wanted to meet for a late lunch, I could tell you a bit about them. They’ve got a gig tonight too, if you’re interested enough to check them out.”

Emma could hardly believe it. Her insane pipe dream might actually be coming together. “Yes,” she replies breathlessly. “Absolutely.”

She hears the smile in his voice as he replies, “Great. How about St. Elmo’s? 2:30?”

Emma’s jaw drops again. “St. Elmo’s? Kevin, are you sure?” She’s been to the historic steakhouse a handful of times before on special occasions and is well aware of how expensive it is. “That’s too generous. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good lunch counter around there.”

She hears some rustling on the other end of the line and realizes he’s shaking his head. “Emma, please, I insist. I’ve been longing for a St. Elmo’s steak since I got back. Please do me the honor of being my companion for that meal?” Kevin pleads.

“Alright,” she sighs. “If you insist. I will be happy to join you for lunch at St. Elmo’s. Thank you, Kevin. Now go, I don’t want to make you late for your classes.” Kevin laughs brightly.

“No, Emma. Thank you. Goodbye!” The line goes dead. 

Emma puts the receiver back in the cradle. It’s happening. This is going to happen. Her band is forming. It’s going to work. Her fingers tap out a pattern on the table as she thinks. She has time this morning. She could go over to Gran’s and continue working on her songs. But that would mean fielding questions about her night at the Greene’s. She pinches the bridge of her nose and, for the millionth time, wishes she had a piano in her apartment. She could go see Barry. But she doesn’t want to step foot in the Sunrise Grill until she has her band together, to be able to say “I did it. Against all odds, I did it.”

She can imagine the proud smile on Barry’s face, the adrenaline rush she’ll feel up on that stage with _her_ band, playing _her_ music, telling _her_ stories. She hasn’t had anything solely her own in so long. The endless possibilities swirl through her mind, one after another. Emma reaches up, twirling and tugging on a lock of hair, contemplating each one as they flit by.

Minutes pass and Emma finally comes to a conclusion.

She really needs a glass of water.

* * *

Alyssa is running late. She stayed up far too late reading Gregory’s letters and journals and slept through her alarm. It’s only when she hears the familiar whistle of the tea kettle that she realizes, with a jolt, that her mother is awake, and she has less than an hour before she needs to be at work.

She frantically rushes around her room, immensely grateful she had set out her clothes the night before. Yanking curlers from her hair, she darts across the hall to the bathroom. She grabs some bobby pins from the counter and starts pinning the loose curls away from her face. Satisfied that she won’t be reprimanded for having disorderly hair again, she starts working on painting her face. Her tired eyes stare back from the mirror, still slightly puffy from last night’s tears and lack of sleep. A sigh escapes her lips as she realizes she doesn’t have time to do anything about it.

The familiarity of the routine grounds her. Paint on thick foundation, blending the shades, powder to lock it in place. Touch of rouge on the cheeks, not too much, then some petroleum jelly to smooth down the eyebrows. Alyssa bypasses her mascara for the day, settling for the faster option of dipping a lash brush in the already open Vaseline. She will still be the least made-up woman at work today, but she doesn’t mind. 

“Alyssa? Coffee’s ready,” Veronica calls up the stairs. Risking one last look in the mirror, she takes a deep and heads to the kitchen.

Sure enough, a cup of coffee waits for Alyssa on the breakfast table, cream and sugar sitting nearby. Veronica stirs a pot of oatmeal on the stove, glancing up as Alyssa walks in.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says brightly. “I was starting to think you were going to miss breakfast entirely.” Alyssa shakes her head in disbelief. “As did I,” she admits. She accepts the bowl Veronica hands over, glancing at the clock.

“I can’t believe I slept through my alarm,” Alyssa says around a mouthful of oatmeal. Veronica raises her eyebrows, her obvious disapproval of her daughter’s manners making Alyssa slow down and swallow her food before speaking again. “I was up for hours reading. I just couldn’t stop.” Veronica gives a small smile, waiting for Alyssa to continue. Instead, she busies herself with scraping the side of her bowl. She taps her spoon in thought. “There was nothing shocking in what I read, it was mostly things he’d told me in his letters. Yet, it felt new. It felt like I had him back for a moment. You know how he loved to tell stories over and over? It was like that. The same stories, with the same enthusiasm every time.”

Alyssa looks up at Veronica, a sad smile on her face. “Emma gave me Gregory back. And I can never repay her for that.”

Veronica leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her head. “I’m sure she doesn’t want repayment. But it was lovely to finally meet her, wasn’t it?” Alyssa nods, staring at her clasped hands. Ever since Emma first appeared at her door, she hasn’t left Alyssa’s thoughts. There is now a corner of her mind dedicated to Emma—a corner filled with endless questions she will never ask, observations she wishes she could forget. Like the way Emma adjusts her glasses (gracefully), the way she carries herself (with confidence), the way she loses herself in music (absolutely enchanting). Alyssa wishes she hadn’t noticed any of these things. She wishes she could make herself forget.

She doesn’t want to forget.

Still lost in thought, Alyssa absentmindedly glances at the watch on her left wrist. 8:30 am. She turns back to her oatmeal, picking up her spoon before dropping it with a clatter as she registers the time. Abruptly pushing back from the table, she jumps to her feet, whirling around trying to locate her handbag. Finding it on the small table in the hallway, she rushes back into the kitchen. Veronica watches with amusement as Alyssa shovels the rest of her breakfast into her mouth.

“Have a good day!” she says with a laugh and a wave as Alyssa kisses her on the cheek and hurries to the door. “Alyssa!”

Alyssa pauses, one foot on the porch, and looks back at her mother. Veronica gestures to her face. “You might want to check your lipstick.” Color rushes to Alyssa’s cheeks as she closes the door and sheepishly fixes her smudged makeup. Once her reflection confirms that she no longer looks the frantic mess she feels, she snaps her bag shut and turns for her mother to give final approval. Veronica gently pats her cheek.

“Much better. Now, go. The world is waiting for you, but the trolley isn’t.” Alyssa rolls her eyes fondly. Veronica had come up with the expression one day when Alyssa was running late for school and it had stuck ever since.

She’s halfway to work before she remembers why she’d slept in.

* * *

At 2:30 on the dot, Emma finds herself standing on the sidewalk in front of St. Elmo’s Steakhouse, watching people pass. A flurry of movement catches her eye, and she sees Kevin dart across the street, weaving between stopped cars. He pauses to catch his breath and straighten his suit jacket, then picks up his briefcase and, with a smile, walks up to Emma.

“Shall we?” he asks, opening the door and standing back. She smiles at his chivalrousness and decides not to bring up the fact that his carefully styled hair is still a bit windswept from his dash through traffic.

They are led to a table about halfway through the restaurant. There are just a few other tables occupied scattered throughout the room, giving them plenty of privacy. They make idle small talk as they look over the menu, preferring to wait until there will be no interruptions to begin the real course of discussion.

Once the waiter leaves with their menus, Kevin turns to Emma. He pulls a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and slides it across the table. She unfolds it and sees two names.

_Marcus Young, drums_

_Jules Robinson, trumpet_

“Marcus is the best drummer I know. I wish I could have gotten him for my gig last week, but he’s been in high demand since he got back,” Kevin says, pausing to gauge Emma’s reaction. She nods prompting him to continue. “He’s got rhythm like no other. Not the brightest star in the sky, but he’s a hard worker and a helluva musician. Of course, this is your band and it’s your choice.”

Emma stares past Kevin, complex drum lines and intricate time signatures springing to mind. Ones she hadn’t dared include in case she had to settle for a serviceable drummer. But now. If he’s as good as Kevin claims, she can put them on paper, hear them aloud. Her fingers tap out a rhythm on her thigh, and she hopes she’ll still remember it by the time she gets home.

The waiter arrives with wine. Kevin tastes the Cabernet and makes a polite comment about the notes of cherry. Emma couldn’t care less about the subtleties, but her time in Europe during the war does make her appreciate her ability to mindlessly sip high quality wine on a Monday afternoon.

Kevin watches as the waiter retreats to the kitchen, then turns to Emma. “So,” he prompts, “What do you think?”

“I think it’ll be even better with the steak.”

He presses his lips together in an attempt to stifle his laugh. “I mean, what do you think about Marcus?”

Emma cracks a smile, enjoying the feeling of having someone to joke with. She tilts her head in thought, saying, “I need to hear him play. But if he’s as good as you say he is, then I want him. Where did he serve?”

Kevin’s brow furrows. “I know he was somewhere in the Pacific. He’s Army, but I don’t know what division. We don’t talk much about that time. Just focus on the here and now.”

She nods, knowing very well the intense desire to ignore the horrors they survived. She points to the second name and asks, “What’s his story?”

“Jules Robinson,” Kevin sighs. “Incredible trumpet player. Never a sour note or botched rhythm. Once upon a time he was planning on getting out of here, heading for New York or New Orleans or Los Angeles. Anywhere he could play his music. Now he spends his days teaching at that music school on West Michigan.” He sips his wine. “I don’t know exactly what he saw, but it clearly wasn’t good. He doesn’t trust easily. But he’s loyal and dedicated. Once he’s committed to something, he sees it through.”

Emma’s fingers drum on her thighs as she thinks. This is all too good, too perfect. There has to be a catch. It can’t be possible that she’s found nearly half of her band in less than a week. Nothing has ever gone right for her. Why would her luck change now?

Her right hand curls around the stem of her wineglass. She focuses on the on the cool feeling, the smoothness underneath her fingertips. The stem varies in diameter, thinner at the top and bottom and thicker in the middle. She watches her fingers slide up and down, the motion soothing, grounding her in the moment.

“Alright,” she says at last. “You said they’re playing tonight. Well, let’s see what they’ve got.”

* * *

Alyssa is beyond exhausted, barely able to convince her feet to carry her up the porch steps as she returns home after work. Mondays were always a challenge to get through, and the lack of sleep the night before made putting on a pleasant demeanor even more difficult. Add on the mindless conversation needed to ensure a sale and the feigned interest in coworker’s stories and it’s official. Alyssa is burned out.

Extremely grateful for her mother’s habit of leaving the front door unlocked, Alyssa twists the knob and crosses the threshold. She’s halfway through kicking off her shoes when the sound of voices and the smell of baked goods break apart the fog in her brain. Shoving her aching feet back into her heels, she follows the voices back into the kitchen. Alyssa hovers in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. Veronica is sitting facing the door, head thrown back in raucous laughter. She dabs her eyes with a handkerchief, patting the hand of the woman in front of her.

“Oh Betsy, you’re too much,” she says, still shaking her head.

Alyssa realizes with a start that the gray head of hair in front of her belongs to none other than Betsy Nolan. The kind, vivacious woman she first met at church, who she now knows to be Emma’s grandmother. She contemplates sneaking upstairs before she’s noticed but knows the creaking stairs would give her away. Taking a breath and putting back on the “happy-to-help” smile she gives to customers, Alyssa steps into the kitchen.

In a cheery voice that hides her exhaustion, she chirps, “Betsy! What a pleasant surprise!” Betsy turns towards the door, standing up quickly to pull Alyssa into a bruising hug. Once she releases her, Alyssa adds, “I would have begged off of work earlier had my mother,” she looks pointedly at Veronica, “thought to inform me of this little gathering.” Chuckling, Betsy pats her cheek soothingly, gently shaking her head.

“Don’t be too hard on your mother, dear,” she says. “I stopped by unannounced to see if she would be interested in helping with the church picnic next weekend and we just kept chatting.” She gestures to the spread of cookies and cups of tea sitting on the table. “Would you care to join us?”

Before Alyssa has a chance to respond, Veronica cuts in. “Of course she will,” she answers. She crosses to the stove and starts busying herself with preparing Alyssa a cup of tea, taking one of the nice cups and saucers out of the cabinet reserved for entertaining guests. She turns on the burner to reheat the kettle, bringing the teapot over from the table in anticipation of the hot water and new tea leaves. Veronica glances over her shoulder at Alyssa, still standing by Betsy’s chair.

“Why are you still standing there? Sit!”

Startled by her mother’s command, Alyssa rounds the table and sits across from Betsy. The plate of cookies appears in front of her and she wordlessly takes one, despite being too tired to be hungry. Veronica leans against the counter, carefully eying Alyssa. She looks to Betsy, who subtly raises an eyebrow. Clearing her throat, she turns back to the stove, fiddling with the burner knob.

“Betsy was just telling me that Emma is putting together a swing band,” Veronica starts. “I think it sounds absolutely wonderful, and what a brilliant idea, don’t you think, Alyssa?” Alyssa nods her head, mouth full of cookie crumbs. She swallows with difficulty, her throat suddenly feeling like sandpaper.

“She is quite the musician,” Alyssa manages. Veronica places her hand over her heart dramatically.

“Betsy, you should have heard her last night,” she swoons. “I don’t know what she was playing, but all of a sudden the house was filled with the most beautiful music. I would have paid a whole dollar for that performance!”

Betsy smiles, her face lighting up at the mention of her granddaughter. “She really is special,” Betsy agrees. “Mostly I’m just glad to have her home. Not that she lives with me anymore,” she amends, “But she does come by often enough to work on her songs. Her apartment is too small for a piano, so she uses mine. It’s nothing fancy, but gets the job done.” She picks up her tea and takes a sip. “Emma’s determined to put together a band for the Eddie Sharp radio contest, and I know that if she can get the right musicians, she can go far. Who knows, maybe she could even win the whole thing!” she exclaims with a smile.

The kettle whistles on the stove. Veronica turns off the burner, refocusing her attention on the process of making tea. Alyssa’s mind starts turning. She knows Emma is talented. Her impromptu performance last night made that obvious. Could she actually win a nationwide contest?

“Has she selected the rest of the band?” she asks Betsy. Betsy shakes her head.

“I don’t believe so. Last I heard, she was still trying to find a few more people. There are some possibilities, but she needs to finalize her lineup quickly if they have any hope of playing some gigs before the preliminaries.”

Veronica sets the cup of tea in front of Alyssa and places the teapot in the center of the table. Finally sitting for the first time since Alyssa entered the kitchen, she finishes her own, now cold, tea. Refilling the cup, she takes another sip. Tapping on the edge of her saucer thoughtfully, she glances at Alyssa.

“Well. I do believe we’ve found an intriguing topic of conversation for Friday night!” Veronica says cheerfully.

Alyssa furrows her brow. “What is happening Friday night?”

Veronica cocks her head. “Why, Betsy and Emma are coming over for dinner! Didn’t I mention that?”

* * *

At 7 o’clock on the dot, Emma and Kevin walk through the doors of the 42nd Street Club. Emma smiles slightly, thinking about the last time she was here, merely a week ago, and how that meeting with DeeDee might have changed her life forever. Now, here she is again to meet two more people that she hopes will be part of that change.

Emma finds an open table near the bar while Kevin goes to get their drinks. Sitting down, she watches the band file onto the stage, noisily taking their places as they joke with the couples at the front tables. She focuses particularly on the man taking a seat behind the drum set and the one picking the trumpet off of its stand. Marcus and Jules. Emma follows their movements with a critical eye, observing how they prepare for their set.

Marcus’s preparations are just as unruly as his hair. He has an easy grin on his face. His right hand runs through his dark curls, disrupting them further. In his left hand, a drumstick twirls between his fingers. His knee bounces in excitement as he adjusts his seat, looking towards the other musicians for his cue.

Jules could not be more opposite in both physical appearance and mannerisms. Where Marcus is pale and lanky, Jules is dark and muscled. His hair is cropped to the exact specifications set by the military for Black servicemen. Every movement is deliberate. He checks his trumpet, tuning it quickly before emptying the spit valve. Once he finishes, he stands at attention, waiting.

Kevin returns with her Old Fashioned and his Scotch. Leaning over, he quietly quips, “I’m guessing you figured out who is who?”

Emma nods distractedly, still focused on the men on the stage. An attractive man with slicked back blonde hair steps up to the microphone. The crowd quiets in anticipation. Marcus looks around and quietly counts the band in.

They strike up a bright melody with a gentle tempo. A few couples get up and make their way to the dance floor, swaying to the beat. The singer begins in a strong baritone:

_I’ll get by_

_As long as I have you_

_There may be rain_

_And darkness too_

_I won’t complain_

_I’ll see it through_

He steps back as he finishes the verse, turning slightly to the rest of the band to draw the crowd’s focus to the talented musicians. Emma watches Jules insert a mute into the bell and step forward to begin his solo.

As soon as he plays his first note, Emma turns to Kevin with a smile. He’d been watching her nervously, unsure of what she was thinking. He now relaxes, tipping his glass towards Jules with a smile.

“I told you he’s good,” he says lowly. Emma nods, finally relaxing enough to take a sip of her drink.

“That you did.”

The rest of the set confirms that Kevin had found incredible musicians for Emma and that, if the men do join her band, she will be well on her way to winning the competition. Marcus isn’t given much time to shine, but it is clear to Emma that he is exactly the kind of drummer she needs. He is content playing lightly in the background and seems to enjoy listening to the music as much as he enjoys playing it, as well as having the talent to take charge and drive the tempo when necessary. Jules is featured on several songs, each time more impressive than the last. Emma knows that someone as talented as him should not be confined to playing jazz clubs in the middle of the country, but if he will be sticking around for a while, she won’t complain.

She’s finishing her second martini when Kevin waves over Marcus and Jules. They’d finished their set a few minutes earlier and had gone to the bar to grab the plates of food the kitchen had set aside for them. Kevin pulls over two chairs as the men set their food down.

“Emma, this is Marcus Young and Jules Robinson,” Kevin introduces. “Men, this is Emma Nolan. She’s the one putting together a group for the Eddie Sharp contest.”

Marcus takes her hand and shakes it gently. “How do you do, Miss Nolan.” Emma chuckles.

“Emma is fine. Although, should you join the group I will grant you permission to just call me by my last name,” she adds. Marcus smiles broadly.

“Yes, ma’am!”

She turns to Jules. He gives her hand a firm shake before dropping it and getting straight to business.

“I refuse to play second trumpet. I’m too good for that, so if you expect me to step aside quietly then you’ve got another thing coming.” He stares her dead in the eyes. “I know I’m good. If you can’t see it then we’re done here.”

Emma meets his gaze evenly. “You won’t play second trumpet,” she starts. “I would never ask you to step aside quietly. As long as you are able to play, and play well consistently, you will be the only trumpet and, by default, first trumpet.” She pauses, waiting to make sure she has his attention. “You are good. You’re very good, in fact. I don’t know what you’re doing sticking around Indianapolis when you could be making a name for yourself elsewhere. But while you’re here, I would like you to be part of my group.”

Jules’s carefully constructed façade slips for a moment, a flicker of surprise and appreciation momentarily noticeable. He quickly blinks it away and his face becomes as impassive as ever.

“Thank you for the offer,” he says. “I will consider it and get back to you.”

Emma nods, then turns her attention back to Marcus. He doesn’t appear to have heard her exchange with Jules at all, his focus solely on the food in front of him.

“Now, Marcus,” she says, expecting him to finally look up. He does not.

She tries again. “I was quite impressed with your drumming, Marcus.” Still nothing.

Emma sits back for a moment, trying to figure out how best to get his attention without startling him. Jules decides to save her the trouble and slaps the back of Marcus’s head, saying, “For God’s sake, man, would you pay attention for once in your life?!”

Marcus looks up sheepishly, rubbing his head. “My apologies, ma’am. If I’m focused on something, I don’t always notice what’s going on around me,” he explains.

“I suspect that’s why you’re a very good drummer,” Emma suggests. “Nothing can distract you from the music.” He finally meets her eyes, having been avoiding them in embarrassment. Relief is evident in his face. Emma keeps going.

“I liked what I heard tonight. I’d like to hear more, hear what you can really do when you’re not just keeping the beat. I need to know what I’ll be working with, what kinds of songs we can pull off.” She looks to Jules, making sure he’s listening too. “I’d like to invite you both to a rehearsal next week. Let’s say, next Monday, a week from tonight. If all goes well, we could be playing gigs by the weekend.”

Marcus agrees immediately. Jules considers the offer for a moment. Eventually, he stipulates that he will attend one rehearsal and make his final decision about joining Emma’s band after that. Feeling lighter than she has in ages, she writes down her grandmother’s address on two pieces of paper, instructing them to arrive at 7 pm sharp.

Suddenly in a celebratory mood, Emma feigns surprise as she looks at her watch. Claiming an early start tomorrow, she bids Marcus and Jules goodbye, and tells Kevin they’ll be in touch, quietly thanking him for the effort he has gone through to help her. Exiting the 42nd Street Club, Emma crosses the street, barely noticing the cars honking as they swerve around her. She is invincible. She is unstoppable. She is…in search of another drink.

Without thinking, her feet start taking her towards Oliver’s. Maybe Shelby will be there. After all, she’ll need to tell her about the rehearsal next week. At the very least, Jimmy will be there and willing to lend an ear. And with a little bit of luck, this next drink will be enough to get the thought of the pretty brunette she wrote a song about out of her head.


End file.
